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Updated: May 13, 2025
Her father had spent Sunday morning in his study, writing letters; her mother had carried the more devout members of the party to mass and from mass to a vague, bored exploration of the garden, where they could be seen scattered on the lowest terrace, trying to make friends with an unresponsive peacock; the men, headed by Pentyre, were warmly entrenched round the smoking-room fire in a blue tobacco-haze and a litter of Sunday papers.
George Oakleigh, in naval uniform, was unashamedly sleeping in a deep window-embrasure, his mouth open and his eyeglasses on his knees. Deganway and Carstairs were arguing in subdued tones and seemed as vacantly uninterested as Pentyre, who had exhausted the feuilleton of his paper and was studying the advertisements.
"What are you going to do?" she pursued. "I should like to go on sleeping. . . ." "Come for a walk, Babs," interrupted Pentyre. "It's my last leave " "Then you'd better rest instead of working on my emotions. George, on the other hand, never gets any exercise at the Admiralty, and, as he's never been here before, I think I shall take him round the house. Besides, he hasn't asked me to do anything.
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